


Empty Space and Paintings

by BackyardPodcast



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: The fam isn't actually there, post-season 6, reunion fic!, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BackyardPodcast/pseuds/BackyardPodcast
Summary: Lance returns home and sees all that has changed





	Empty Space and Paintings

No one was home when Lance returned. The key still rested under the garden gnome, making it easy to enter. Light filtered through the shades, drifting in from the backyard. Photos and drawings decorated the stucco walls. Furniture stood in different spots, all of it misplaced.

The house buzzed silently around him, a stray creak crackling here and there. Lance remembered treasuring every second of quiet growing up, those bare moments where nothing at all seemed to be happening. A blanket of calm fell on everything, until some shout or slam shattered it. Now it felt unnatural. The underneath of his skin buzzed. Ants swarmed beneath that singular layer, rushing to go anywhere but here.

Lance found it difficult to convince himself to stay. He wanted to run, to delay this moment he had so longed for.

Still, he kept walking. Luis’ room. Veronica’s room. Marco and his shared room. Lance opened the door with difficulty; he couldn’t seem to get a grip on the knob.

Marco’s bed had been replaced by dead air. Maybe it was only logical that his brother would move out of their room, but Lance still felt struck by the sight of the emptiness.

Maybe that was how his family felt at the sight of his barren sheets.

Lance’s bed remained untouched. A fine layer of dust rested on the comforter and pillows. His shelves still held all his trophies, and his posters still splattered the walls, and his rocket ship lamp still stood on his nightstand. Papers and textbooks and markers and wrappers lay messily on his desk, like his family expected him to come home any day. It had been  _ years _ . Lance wasn’t sure what would’ve been worse, them believing he would come home, or them believing he wouldn’t.

Lance looked away, turning towards the empty carpet where Marco used to sleep. He moved to stand there, his skin tingling where it should have hit wood. Except, no, he had grown. The framework would’ve landed a couple inches lower. His heart flinched at the thought.

His fists clenched to grasp at blankets that weren’t there. When Lance had last seen them, they were plaid quilts. Before that, sheets decorated with bats and baseballs. Eyes closed, he sat down, allowing nonexistent blankets to form a fort. He remembered doing this years ago, telling spooky stories with a flashlight and incessantly shushing each other whenever Mamá walked near the door. 

Lance threaded his fingers through the the carpet, feeling the floor, attempting to ground himself. His breath hitched. The carpet felt soft, completely free of any of the crumbs he recalled being there.

When he finally left the room, his mouth tasted salty.

 

He found himself next in the office. It looked nearly the exact same, the desk covered with ornaments and picture frames, all in virtually the same place. However, in the corner of the room stood an easel with an unfinished painting resting in its arms. The top right of the picture held a patch of white canvas that remained uncovered, sketch lines marring its pristine. Though not completed, Lance could see the night sky they were creating. Who painted? Who started making these masterpieces in his absence? 

More changes, more  _ paintings _ , hung on the walls. Subjects varied from the beach to flowers to sailboats, but a majority of them featured outer space. Stargazers silhouetted on a night sky, planets floating in orbit, a comet shooting over a grassy hill, meteors falling by during a shower. Whoever made them still remembered him, and his dream to reach the stars, a dream they had no idea had been achieved

Lance turned to leave, to go before more tears could slip down his cheeks, when he saw the painting above the door. It was a portrait of a teenage boy with brown skin and blue eyes and a bright smile. He radiated joy, empty of scars and seconds away from laughing. So young and carefree.

It was a portrait of Lance.

An ugly noise ripped its way out of him. What would they think, when they realized he was no longer the kid who had left them? What would they think of him not coming home sooner? What would they think of all his new scars, physical and mental? What would they think of him?

It was time to leave the office.

 

Lance had curled in on himself on the couch in the living room, thinking it best not to rediscover anything else. He had already seen here, there was nothing for him to find. 

The furniture was all rearranged. They had replaced the rocking chair with a newer one. Lance didn’t want to think about any of it. It was all too much. He shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have abandoned his family. He should’ve tried to come home sooner, tried to contact them to let them know he wasn’t gone for good.

What else could’ve changed? Had Luis had more kids? Had Marco ever tied the knot with his girlfriend? What was Veronica studying in college? Had she even gone to college? Did his parents ever go on that trip they were planning, or had they canceled?

What things did they give up when he disappeared? 

Lance’s eyes fell open, squinting out onto his surroundings. He noted the photograph that stood on the end table, depicting his entire family at Veronica’s quince. She wore a poofy blue dress, surrounded by every relative he could think of in suits and ties and dresses and skirts. The photograph showed them all laughing as Lance and his two brothers held her in the air at full arms length, Veronica posing and making a peace sign. He recalled getting some of her dress in his mouth as it draped down, and him spitting it out and nearly dropping her in the process. When their mother noticed the frosting he left on the dress, she had been so angry Lance had been sure that that would be the day he died.

He smiled at the photo, still curled up on himself. It was funny to him now, despite how terrified he had felt at the time. It had all turned out okay in the end, and maybe knowing that made all the difference. 

His family cared about him then, and they still did now, as was made abundantly clear from the still-intact desk and the paintings. There wasn’t even a question of if Lance still loved them; he was here, wasn’t he, after years of disappearing? They were the reason he fought so hard, to keep them safe. 

He could do it. He could face them, and explain all of it.

For them.

And hopefully they would try to understand, for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed(I'm not southern why do I say y'all, even ironically). I come from a big family a lot like Lance so this is largely based off of my own experiences and how I think I would react.
> 
> Just to confirm, Lance's family does return home like a minute after I cut it off. They're safe and sound I promise.
> 
> Feel free to leave comments! I live for feedback and would especially love some constructive criticism!


End file.
